


They Call Kids Like Us Vicious

by Lapin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Beorn's House, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:49:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapin/pseuds/Lapin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some part of Bilbo thinks he shouldn't, thinks that this is like running out his door that morning. He won't be able to turn back once he starts, never mind what gets left behind. </p><p>But he stays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Call Kids Like Us Vicious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ManhattanMom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManhattanMom/gifts).



> Title from Fall Out Boy's "I Slept With Someone In Fall Out Boy And All I Got Was This Stupid Song Written About Me", the whole lyric being _they call kids like us vicious and carved out of stone_. 
> 
> I'm separating this into two sections because it just seems to work this way for the time being.

Beorn tells them he wants to see all their weapons, at all times, and frankly, Bilbo believes it's more absolute exhaustion than actual fear that has the Dwarves obeying. All Bilbo has is his little letter-opener, but Fíli produces around a dozen hidden knives off his person, to go with his two falchions, axe, and work knife, and Nori...well, Bilbo isn't sure how the Dwarf walks without jingling. 

“Really, Nori,” Dori huffs, still combing through Nori's long hair while Beorn watches from the great table. “This is ridiculous. Did you leave anything shiny in Lord Elrond's home?” 

“Didn't bother unscrewing anything,” Nori says, sitting with his chin in his hands while Dori hands off needle-thin stiletto knives to Dwalin. “Elf weapons last awhile. And you know they sell well in Men's towns.” 

“You're absolutely impossible,” Dori says, Nori making a mocking face.

Bilbo sits in a pile of straw, watching and smoking a pipe. It's prickly, but softer than the hard ground. “You just have a slingshot, Ori?” he asks, glancing at the Dwarf, who is still seemingly reassuring himself of his precious book's safety, inspecting every page, it looks like. “Why is that?”

“I haven't been trained,” he says, not looking up. 

“Ori's always been more interested in books than swords, Bilbo,” Kíli says, sitting down beside Ori. “He's got awful good aim though. You should see him when he feels like actually shooting a bow. Best aim in all of Ered Luin.” When Ori doesn't pay attention, Kíli reaches around and taps Ori's opposite shoulder, so Ori looks the wrong way. “Not too quick on the uptake though.” 

Fíli strolls over, tossing an apple to Kíli, and then placing one on top of Ori's journal. “Careful with Ori, Master Baggins. He might look like a little lamb, but he broke Kíli's nose once. And you should have seen him with Dwalin's hammer. Lifted it right above his head and into a Goblin skull. He can be a fierce little bastard, when he wants to be.” 

All Bilbo sees is Ori turning a rather deep shade of red. 

“So can Bilbo, apparently,” Kíli teases, waggling his eyebrows. “Who would have thought you had it in you?” 

“I would have been the last to suspect it,” Bilbo replies, enjoying the peacefulness and his pipe. He doubts anything in the woods has any intention of coming near Beorn's lands, not after what they'd witnessed the first night. There's a bloody Warg skin pinned to the outside gate now, and mounted beside it are half a dozen Orc heads on a pike. “Where have you been keeping all those knives, Fíli?”

“Trade secret,” Fíli says, winking. “But I'll tell you if you lend me some pipeweed.”

Bilbo obliges him, and Fíli packs and lights his pipe, taking a few puffs and then offering it first to Ori, who shakes his head, and then Kíli, who takes it and has a hit himself before giving it back to his brother. After they've both indulged, Fíli nudges Ori with his knee, and Ori sets aside his book, standing up with Fíli and starting to unlace Fíli' armour. Bilbo watches, interested in all the hidden catches and folds that Ori seems to know by heart, passing each piece to Kíli, until Fíli is standing in just his shirt, and all his armour is laid out on the pile of straw behind them. 

Inside of Fíli's armour, there's padding, as Bilbo could have guessed, but there are also all sorts of hidden pockets and braces, built in so cleverly the knives wouldn't dig into Fíli's skin. 

“Well,” Bilbo says, admiring the work. “Isn't that useful?”

“Nori's is similar,” Ori says, helping Kíli now. “Dori made it. He's known for this sort of work.” 

Bilbo wants to say that sounds a bit out of character for the oh-so-proper Dori, but then, Nori is his brother, and Nori had a rather impressive collection of silverware from Lord Elrond's table, so perhaps it's not so out of character. “Why isn't yours the same then, Kíli?” Bilbo asks, seeing how different his is from his brother's now that Ori has most of the pieces off. 

“Not so good with knives, me,” Kíli says, holding out one of his arms so Ori can unlace the vambrace, while he works at the other one with his teeth “I mean, I know the right end of one, don't get me wrong, but they're not much use to me in a real fight, not like with Fíli.” His vambraces off, he rolls his wrists, and throws himself down in the pile of straw. “I've got my little two, but for me, it's my bow, and my sword.” 

“C'mere,” Bilbo hears Fíli mutter, as he reaches for Ori, grabbing him by the waist and pulling him down into the straw with Fíli. Once Ori is sitting, Fíli takes Ori's legs and swings them over his lap. “You sure you're fine? You got a bit close to Beorn when he was a bear.”

Ori shakes his head. “His teeth didn't get me. Dori pulled me back.” He sounds a bit put out over it. Bilbo supposes it's not everyday you get to see a shape-changer. He's quite content to see Beorn as he is now. 

“And people say I'm the bad influence,” Fíli says, kissing the inside of Ori's wrist.

Bilbo looks away. He's still not used to the way Dwarves are about this sort of thing. He'd been unsure at first, thinking perhaps he had misunderstood, but he's seen them both without their clothes now, and he's misunderstood nothing. 

“Quit it,” Kíli whines, kicking Fíli in the ankle. “Unless you want to share, of course? What do you think, Bilbo? Aren't I better looking than that prat? Ori would be trading up, wouldn't he?” It's not the sort of question that needs an answer, just a joke, and obviously a frequent one from the way Fíli rolls his eyes. “Have you thought of a name for your little blade, Master Baggins?” 

“Does it need one?” It's a nice idea, but Bilbo's not sure his blade can carry a name. “Does yours have a name?” 

“Nah,” Kíli says, “but that's because it's not my...uh...Ori, how do you say it in Common?” He says a word to Ori then, one from their own language. 

Ori frowns, then says, “It's not really the sort of word that translates neatly. I think maybe...maybe...blood-hand?” 

It's not a very pleasing image. “What in the world does that mean?” he asks. 

“It means,” Thorin says, appearing so silently that Kíli jumps when he speaks, “that these three never learned when to keep their mouths shut.” There's no fire in it, and Thorin rests a hand on Kíli's head as he passes. “Ori, Balin wants you. And you two, take care of your weapons.”

“But I'm tired,” Kíli whines. He still gets up when Fíli takes him by the elbow and forces him up, the pair of them following Ori back to the table, where the weapons and Balin are. 

“Those three...” Thorin says, shaking his head. “I am only glad Glóin's son was deemed too young. When the four of them are together, they are naught but trouble.” He sits beside Bilbo with some effort, and Bilbo worries about the bruises he knows are lurking just under Thorin's shirt. “I think you would enjoy Gimli's company though. He's a clever lad.” 

“Glóin certainly seems proud of him.” Glóin and Bombur seem content to talk to one another about their families back in Ered Luin, bragging about their children and their spouses, and speculating about what fine lives they'd be able to provide them in Erebor. “Fíli and Kíli are your sister's children, then?” 

Thorin nods. “They are her pride and joy. She wanted Fíli to come with me, but I think she was reluctant to let Kíli go. Ori had been allowed to join the Company though, and he is younger, and Kíli turned of age, so she had no real way of keeping him home.” 

“And that shows me how different Hobbits and Dwarves truly are,” Bilbo says, offering Thorin his pipe. “No Hobbit would dare defy their mother's wishes, no matter how old they were. It's simply _not done_.” He laughs at the very idea of some young Hobbit Kíli's age attempting to go off on an adventure after their mother said _no_. “They'd be dragged back by their braces before they'd gotten as far as the garden gate.” 

“Are you speaking from experience?” Thorin asks, 

“Oh, no, not at all,” Bilbo says, thinking of how his mother would laugh at the idea. “My mother was an odd duck in the Shire. She used to go adventuring all over when she was young. It was quite a thing that she married my father. It still comes up in the gossip when things are a bit slow.” Bilbo's heard the story so many times, from so many different people, he feels as though he was there himself. “She always encouraged me to go out in the woods, looking for Elves.”

“Why?” Thorin asks, his tone much less friendly. “What did you find so fascinating about them?” The way he says the last word suggests he had another term in mind. 

“Well, all the Dwarves I met told me to get out from underfoot,” Bilbo replies smartly, taking his pipe back from Thorin so he can have a puff. “The idea of Elves seemed nicer.” Thorin is scowling, so Bilbo adds, “After meeting them though, they're not quite as grand as I thought they'd be.” 

“You will be even less impressed if we encounter the Woodland Elves,” Thorin mutters. “They do not pretend at good manners the way Lord Elrond's people do.” 

Bilbo had read little about King Thranduil's realm in comparison to Lord Elrond's. There had never been much to read, beyond a few mentions of their existence, and once, a very old map showing their forest and the location of the city. What Balin had told them that night had been the most Bilbo had ever heard about Thranduil himself. “Do you remember King Thranduil? You were very young when Erebor was stolen.” 

“I had only met him a few times,” Thorin says, his eyes on Bilbo as he takes the pipe back. “He and my grandfather hated one another. There was bad blood between them, concerning Thranduil's wife. My father took my grandfather's side.” He keeps his eyes on Bilbo, and Bilbo cannot make himself look away. He knows he should, but it's all but impossible. “But...he was kind to me.” 

That surprises Bilbo enough he sits up straighter, coming closer to Thorin. His voice has lowered, grown rougher, and even with the subject, it causes a shiver up Bilbo's spine. “I was under the impression you hated him.” 

“I do now,” Thorin says, voice still low, still rough. “But...when I was young, before Smaug came, I did not. Elves, they do not have many children, you see. The first time I met Thranduil, met him properly, it turned out my mother had mentioned that I had an interest in archery. I was perhaps fifteen, still very young for a Dwarf. He had brought a gift for me; a bow. An Elven recurve bow, meant to be used from horseback for an Elf, but the perfect size for a Dwarf child. It wasn't given with any scorn, or derision. It was simply a gift for a child.” He finally looks away from Bilbo. “I loved that bow. After I outgrew it, I had it put in a case, and displayed on the wall in my bedroom, beside my grandmother's axes.” He rubs at his mouth. “Likely, it still hangs there.” 

Bilbo reaches out before he even thinks about it; and it's so strange, because he would never touch another Hobbit in such a moment. It wouldn't be proper. He reaches out for Thorin though, and his hand finds its way to Thorin's knee. He's more surprised by his own action than he is when Thorin covers Bilbo's hand with his great one, Bilbo's all but disappearing beneath it. “Why did he turn your people away?”

“Because he is faithless,” Thorin says, as solemn as an oath, as he had been that night Balin told them of Azanulbizar. “As is all his kind. Why should they care for the plight of mortals? We are no sooner born than we are dust to their kind, and so they treat us as they would dirt under their feet.” 

Bilbo cannot protest, has no desire to, not with his hand still under Thorin's. “Beorn says there's a place to wash in the other room. Getting under some water will be good for you and those bruises.” 

“In a moment. Let us finish the pipe.” 

While they do, the rest of the party goes in and out of the room Beorn showed them, most emerging in just their trousers, if that, their dirty clothes slung over their shoulders. Nori and Dori both have all their hair and beards undone, and while Bilbo idly watches, Bofur makes a comment in Khuzdul Bilbo doesn't have to have translated to know the meaning of. Dori in turn waves him off, a dismissal Bofur mocks by clutching at his chest and pretending to fall down. 

“Is Dori considered very good-looking, amongst your people?” It's not that Bilbo finds him ugly or even unattractive. Just that he finds himself looking at Thorin more than anyone, and cannot imagine anyone else doing different. 

“Yes,” Thorin replies firmly, the lines around his eyes deepening with his smile. “Dori is considered very beautiful. They call him...ah...in your words, 'polished pearl', in Ered Luin. For his hair, and his manners. I would not recommend you doing so. He's not very fond of the name.”

Bilbo laughs softly, so no one takes notice. “I don't know that'd I enjoy that either.” 

“King.” Beorn calls. “And Hobbit. Come here ” 

Thorin rises, and extends a hand to Bilbo, giving him help up out of the straw. Even injured, it hardly seems to take any effort on Thorin's part, and Bilbo recalls slipping on the wet mountain path, the rush and the fear, only for Thorin to hoist him up one handed. How different are Dwarves, really? Ori is the same height as Bilbo, and supposedly no real warrior, yet he'd lifted Dwalin's hammer. Bilbo's not even sure he could move the bloody thing. 

This leads down a path he'd rather not explore, but he doesn't think he can be blamed. Oh, no Hobbit miss would ever set her sights on a Dwarf, not in earnest, that simply wouldn't be done, but Thorin would set them all in a-twitter in the Shire, he's sure. There'd have been many a pot or pan in need of mending if any of the Dwarves who had come to work in the smithy had looked anything like Thorin.

Bilbo cannot say he wouldn't have been guilty of it himself. 

In the Shire though, Bilbo never would have acted. He couldn't afford too, not anymore, not if he wanted to avoid trouble for himself. He was too old to be engaging in such childish relationships. 

But this is not the Shire. This is the home of a shape-changer, and Bilbo is in a company of thirteen Dwarves intending to take a mountain back from a dragon, and he's met Elves, and seen mountains battle one another, and outrun Wargs. He doesn't feel like a proper Hobbit at all. Perhaps that's why his mind is insisting on wondering about how different Dwarves are in other arenas, on the strength of Thorin's hands and how it would feel to actually touch him. 

“A show of good faith,” Beorn says, holding out Orcrist. “You are the leader. You may keep yours when you are inside. All others, must take theirs outside.” 

Thorin takes Orcrist from Beorn, the sword looking much smaller in his huge hands. “My thanks.” He looks at Bilbo's little sword, still lying on the table. “And Master Baggins' weapon? You said you were not fond of anyone, but surely Hobbits have done your people no wrongs.”

If Bilbo's surprised at the defence, Beorn doesn't seem to share it. “As far as I know. And I would not separate two.” If Orcrist looks small in Beorn's hand, Bilbo's sword looks as a kitchen utensil. “Here, little bunny.” 

Bilbo gapes, trying to find the correct outrage, but Beorn has walked away now, to tend to something else in the great hall. 

Thorin is smiling. “Perhaps that's a compliment, coming from him.” 

It might very well be, but Bilbo doesn't want any part of it. 

It isn't until they sit back down, and Thorin begins sharpening Orcrist, that Bilbo looks between the two weapons and remembers what else Beorn said. “They do look alike, don't they? Why do you think that is?” He'd never noticed before now, but there's a great similarity between the handles, and the shape of the blades. 

“Likely it was forged to be its companion sword. Some fighters like to have a two-handed sword like Orcrist, and a smaller match in case they lose use of one hand, or it's needed.” He too looks at them. “Yours was made after Orcrist though, if I had to guess. Something in the style suggests imitation. It was likely a gift. Or perhaps the original owner suffered an injury that made Orcrist harder to wield.” 

“Hm,” Bilbo hums, to show he's listening. “Do you mind? That it's Elven?” 

“If I truly minded, I'd continue using my other one,” Thorin replies calmly, but unless Bilbo is mistaken, a little resigned as well. “Elvish weapons such as this are rare, and valuable. They are durable, and strong. It'll cleave a thousand Orc heads, and never break. That's more important than whatever feelings I might have on the matter.” 

“Kíli asked me earlier if I intended on naming mine. Did you ever have another sword with a name?” 

Thorin inhales deeply. “Yes. The name translates to something like _justice_ , though your word doesn't quite encompass the whole meaning in our tongue. I left it with my sister, in Ered Luin, to show she was regent in my absence.” He runs the flat of his palm down Orcrist, feeling for what, Bilbo doesn't know. “Thankfully, Balin's wife is standing with her as well.” When he catches Bilbo's frown, he adds, “My sister is regent by right, but she would not have been the most popular candidate by any means.”

“Are you telling me you're the social one between the pair of you?” he teases. 

“I can be very diplomatic, when the time comes,” Thorin replies, and he looks at Bilbo through his hair with something very intense in his gaze that strikes through to Bilbo's very breath, as though he's just a tween again and blushing at any attention from the tailor's assistant. “I've even been told I'm charming.”

Seeing Thorin in a better mood, Bilbo can believe that. “The broken hearts you must have left in Ered Luin...” he says, taking a long puff of his pipe. 

“And you? Who did you leave pining in your Shire?” 

Bilbo taps the side of his nose. “That would be telling.” 

In truth, there's no one. There's never really been anyone at all. A few dalliances when he was young, when that sort of thing was acceptable, but then they had all grown up, and his dalliances found lasses to marry and have children with, while Bilbo didn't. He could stand to be alone, but he doesn't think he could have stood pretending to love some poor lass and spending the rest of their lives together. 

Thorin sets Orcrist aside, and takes Bilbo's from beside him, beginning the process of sharpening it as well. 

“You don't have to do that,” Bilbo protests. 

“No, I don't. But I want to be sure you're prepared, in case I need saving again.” 

Bilbo is at a loss for words, so he passes Thorin his pipe instead. “You've saved me as well,” he manages. “And likely you'll need to save me far more times before we arrive at the mountain.” The Lonely Mountain is still so far away, but within sight now. Things seem more focused, more real, now that Bilbo has seen the peak rising up in the distance.

Away from them, he hears Ori laugh, and when he looks over, he sees that Kíli has his fiddle out, and Nori and Bofur their pipes. Bombur has turned a pot over, in place of his lost drum, and a good sound is starting. Beorn even starts to clap. Ori grabs Fíli's hands and yanks him up, Fíli groaning, but he takes Ori's hands, and the pair of them begin to move around in a haphazard sort of dance. 

“They're very young,” Thorin says, when he sees what has Bilbo's attention. “Fíli, Kíli and Ori have never seen Erebor. Nori hasn't, and neither have Bofur and Bombur. All of them were born after it was lost. Sometimes I think they want it even more than the rest of us, because they've never known anything like it. Never felt truly safe.”

Fíli begins to sing when Bifur prompts him with waving hands and his own silent language, and again, Bilbo does not need Khuzdul to get the idea, especially when he pulls Ori in closer and everyone laughs. 

“That would never be allowed in the Shire,” he says. 

“They're of age,” Thorin says. “Not that anything such as that ever stopped anyone.”

“No, I meant...when Hobbits are young, that sort of thing is considered alright. But they would be expected to have found wives, by now.” 

Thorin nods. “I have been in places such as that before.” He looks at Bilbo, again with that intense look. “Your home was rather large, for just you.” 

“And in the Shire, it would always be just me.” Admitting it aloud is not as difficult as Bilbo thought it would be. Perhaps because Thorin is a Dwarf, and Bilbo doesn't have to expect any of the polite distaste he would in the Shire. Perhaps because he is Thorin, and Bilbo would like him to know. “And who is waiting for you, back in the Blue Mountains?” 

His eyes are still on Bilbo, the whetstone in his hand still on the blade of Bilbo's sword. “There is no one.” He sets the little sword beside Orcrist and stands. “The others have all washed. And the pipe is done.” 

He should think nothing of this, he knows. They have bathed beside one another often enough on the road. It should be nothing. But as he follows Thorin, he knows this is not nothing.

When the door is slid shut, Bilbo thinks of the differences between before and now. Now, it is only Thorin and himself, in the shadowed room, lit only by the fire in the hearth. And Bilbo looks at Thorin, and doesn't quite know what he feels, only that his heart beats a little too hard around Thorin, and he cannot seem to make it stop. “I could wait until you're finished,” he says, a last attempt to save himself. 

Thorin is not some Hobbit lad to be kissed behind the tailor's shop. Nor is he a Dwarf smith, that could perhaps be a more permanent fixture in Bilbo's quiet, Shire life. He is Thorin Oakenshield, the heir to a kingdom, and he is looking at Bilbo. 

“Stay,” Thorin directs, his gaze feeling heavier here, when it's just them, when there's nothing to distract Bilbo. “I'd like you to stay.” 

Bilbo stays. Some part of him thinks he shouldn't, thinks that this is like running out his door that morning. He won't be able to turn back once he starts, never mind what gets left behind. 

But he stays.


End file.
